


après moi

by hurryup



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Developing Relationship, Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 01:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11302803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurryup/pseuds/hurryup
Summary: Ballet AU. Two strangers, a scholar and a dancer, meet in an empty, shadowed auditorium. They get to talking, which turns to dancing, which turns into something else entirely.





	après moi

Allen put on his running shoes and, despite the ice, took the path back across the campus. The ballet company had studio practice space of its own, they often borrowed auditorium space from the university building next door. He headed into Baker. What with the university's shiny new Art Center, hardly anyone still used these studios. They'd never been converted to anything state-of-the-art. The windows rattled, the wooden boards creaked and groaned with age, and the rafters were strewn with bits of ancient rope, props, and costumes— vestiges of some long-forgotten performance.  
  
Allen liked these old studios. He liked the warm dreaminess of them. The air above Allen was vast, the empty seating ahead of him red and plush, evoking the image of some vintage movie theater. He turned the stage lights on, but left the auditorium dark. The steady burst of yellow light enveloped him like a halo.  
  
He swapped his street shoes for a pair of black canvas flats. From there, he moved promptly into a warm-up. Positions one through five, port de bras, a couple of quicker, less involved stretches. If he was practicing with a barre, he'd have stretched his legs, always aiming for that perfect arc, but his sentimental choice of studio hadn't given him that option. To compensate, he worked in bits of the first sequence he'd ever learned, years and years ago. Pas de bourrée, glissade, jeté.  
  
It felt a little like flying, every single time.  
  
From there, he slipped into his routine. There was something strangely soothing in this, in moving. Something that calmed the blood. Perhaps it all came back to the principle of distraction— no time to worry, no space for the hurt to fucking breathe. His body was cooking, sweating; he was moving through space, body twisting down into a plié . He wasn't even himself, he was the prince, consumed with longing for that sublime yet inaccessible swan. A beautiful variation. One of Allen's favorites; luscious, sensual, the kind of arabesque performance that was only rarely choreograph for male dancers. Chassé , bourrée, an arm extended: the lonely prince yearning for the swan; his lily-white, lyrical ideal. He moved in and out of the dark, circling; fall, catch, jeté.  
  
No scars, no ghosts, no rent to pay. There was only Allen, Siegbert, and the dark coliseum of the shadowed theater—

That was when Allen realized he wasn't alone.  
  
Catching at a figure shifting by the auditorium door, Allen faltered. He froze mid-relevé, lifted leg falling back to the wooden stage in awkward hesitation. He stood, breathing hard and blinking out into the empty audience. His eyes tracked across the darkness until he could make out a man, standing with his back against the door.

Through the gloom, their eyes caught. They held.  
  
"Oh!" Allen said. He carded back his damp hair with one hand, somewhat flustered. His face felt hot— was it the embarrassment of having been watched, or simply the flush of exertion. He coughed once, a chesty athlete's cough, taking a moment to catch his breath, remember who he was. He saw eyes widen, hands jumping frantically.  
  
"I'm sorry," the man said in a rush. He had a deep sort of voice that reverberated curiously throughout the room. Though he was half-cast in darkness, Allen could make out the detail of his hands. They were fiddling nervous with a tie at his front, unfastening and refastening it with a tiepin that glinted silver through the gloom. "I... didn't realize someone had signed this auditorium out for use."  
  
"That's alright," Allen said, too embarrassed to admit he hadn't signed the auditorium out at all. He toed at the worn out floorboards, and tried for a smile. "I just didn't realize I had an audience."  
  
There was a short beat of silence.  
  
"Forgive me. I didn't mean to watch for so long. I apologize."  
  
_How long?_ Allen longed to ask, but he held his tongue.  
  
"No, I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head slowly. Curious, Allen moved to the end of the stage to meet him, balancing one foot at the very edge."Were— were you looking to make use of the stage? Because I could move into Studio B."  
  
"No, no," he said very rapidly, as if the response had come to him automatically. Almost unconsciously, the man stepped closer, moving into the light. His face, once half-obscured by shadows, now came into sudden relief. Fine features— sharp brows, a thin, delicate mouth, and bright eyes that took Allen in with intense articulation. He wore his blonde hair in a simple braid, and was dressed to sharp affect in a blue oxford. "No, I wasn't looking for studio space. I just... stumbled in, really. Wandering, I suppose."  
  
He bit his lower lip, blushing just slightly— it was comforting, at least, to know he was just as embarrassed as Allen was. Still, his eyes never lost that fervent look to them, like there was something more he wanted to say but couldn't quite manage it.  
  
"I'm with the university, actually," the man burst out, voice lilting just a little awkwardly. Still, there was something about it that seemed endearingly genuine. He began fumbling in his pocket for an ID card, holding it up in the dark. "Your routine... you must excuse me, I understand this is an intrusion— but you were incredible. You leap with your entire body, not only your legs. Fantastic form."  
  
Allen's heart, stupid thing that it was, stuttered in his chest.  
  
"That's... well. I think that's just about the opposite of an intrusion," he said. He put one to his mouth, just for a moment, before wrestling his self-control back from the depths of self-conscious embarrassment. "Oh! I don't think I caught your name," he laughed, a desperate and perhaps pathetic attempt to change the topic.  
  
"Link," he said, not specifying whether this was his first name or surname. He stepped closer again, moving down the aisle and towards the end of the stage. Allen had to look downwards now to get a direct look at him. "And yourself?"  
  
"Allen Walker," Allen said. Then, tentatively, "Are you a fan of ballet?"  
  
"So to speak," Link said. He scratched the back of his neck. "I'm a dance history major."  
  
Allen cocked his head to the side, appraising Link's ramrod posture, his short-nailed hands, his calves subtly muscled despite his slender frame.  
  
"You used to dance, though."  
  
Link startled.  
  
"You can tell?"  
  
"Clear as day."  
  
"Is that so?" Link blinked, at first bewildered. Then, he let out a laugh— a soft, sotto sound that reverberated throughout the room. "What gave me away?"  
  
"Oh, any number of things," Allen hummed. His eyes raked over Link from head to toe, appreciating the chance to be the observer and not only the observed. "Your feet, for starters."  
  
"My feet," Link deadpanned, sounding unconvinced. A sly grin slowly made its way across Allen's face.  
  
"You're standing in the third position."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Link hurried to correct his posture, and Allen let out a real laugh this time.  
  
"A dancer never forgets, I suppose," he teased. Link actually rolled his eyes at this, and unexpectedly, Allen felt something in his chest begin to soften. Like he was finally releasing something he hadn't even realized he'd pent up. "Did you ever dance professionally?" He asked, crouching down at the edge of the stage to meet Link at eye level.  
  
"A little," Link admitted. "Our class was in the habit of loaning boys out to smaller female studios looking for Albrechts, Franzs, and Siegberts. Occasionally, there were temporary roles with touring companies. I quit officially in my late teens."  
  
"And why was that?"  
  
"I wanted a proper education," Link said, and Allen could see it now— the wicked-sharp intelligence in his brown eyes, the disciplined focus of a scholar. Ballet was an art of the body, and Link was a creature of the mind. "It became impossible for me to keep up with the demands of dance without dropping down to the level of a high school correspondence course. That didn't appeal to me."  
  
"It's not for everyone," Allen reflected. He himself had been happy enough just getting his GED and moving on with his career, but he'd seen plenty of good ballerinas leave the fold to pursue a college education.  
  
"It certainly isn't." He smiled again, just for a moment, eyes turning to the floor in sheepish self-deprecation. "I never really had the right temperament for a dancer, anyhow."  
  
"Let me guess," Allen drawled, glancing over Link's crisp oxford and perfectly shined shoes. The expression _neat as a pin_ came to mind. "You were a wild child."  
  
"Not wild enough," Link sighed. "Too technical. Unemotive. I’m afraid I lack what one might call 'artistic inclinations.' _From the top, Howard, but less perfect this time._ That's what my instructor used to say to me— always with that heavy Russian accent. She was an old-world former prima ballerina."  
  
"Oh, no one does ballet like the Russians," Allen said. And then, with a touch of humor, " _Howard?"_  
  
Link groaned.  
  
"My lifelong misfortune."  
  
"It could be worse!" Allen grinned.  
  
"It could also be much better," Link protested wanly, but he was smiling again. He had a nice smile— the kind that changed his whole face. It made his nose crinkle up, eyes light up. He looked less severe, now, and more and more like the kind of man Allen wouldn't _mind_ being watched by, so long as it was from up close.

 _Howard Link. Howard Link._  
  
"Well, if it's worth anything, I think your name is charming," Allen said.  
  
"Oh," Link said, and now it was his turn to falter and shift. "I'll... take your word for it."  
  
Allen bent a little lower, fingers grazing the stage floor. Link’s face, attractively composed under the stage lights, was close enough now to be something of a temptation.  
  
"You seem familiar with my choreography,” Allen said. “Any critiques?"  
  
Link frowned, one hand coming up to cup his chin as his eyes wandered off in thought.”  
  
"Maybe work on your turnouts,” he responded slowly. “They should be coming from your hip, not your knee."  
  
A familiar takeaway. Now it was Allen’s turn to sigh.  
  
"You sound just like my coach," he said.  
  
“Well, sounds like it’s about time you listened to one of us,” Link said, evidently exasperated, but there was no real heat to his contrition. Allen smiled, fanning his lashes low.  
“Well, then maybe a demonstration is in order. Why don’t you come up onstage?”  
  
Link blinked, taken aback.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You look like you still have the steps in you,” Allen hummed. Link flushed.  
  
"I— I couldn't," he protested, but his eyes were flickering towards the stairs at the left end of the stage with a curious want.  
  
"A good partner makes all the difference,” Allen said. “You can help me with my contact. And turnouts," he added, smiling warm and sly at the thought. "Can’t forget those pesky turnouts.”  
  
“Well, I suppose,” Link said, and Allen knew, then, that he’d won. “Only for a moment. And only if you’re sure.”  
  
“I’m very sure, Mr. Link,” Allen laughed.  
  
Slowly, Link came up the side staircase. They were both onstage, now, and Allen was able to get a more leveled look at Link. He was surprised to find they were about the same height— something about Link’s sharp shoulders and eyes had made Allen think he might be taller. Up close, it was also much easier for him to find vestiges of the dancer Link once was; taut thighs, a sinewed neck, a fluidity to his movements.  
  
“To be honest, I’ve always found _Swan Lake_ to be a bit of a bore,” Allen said, tilting forwards at the hip. Instinctively, Link moved to support him. Link’s hands were pleasantly cool, despite the stuffiness of the studio. “I’m hoping the company will switch it out of our program next year. Maybe try something a little more contemporary."  
  
"I think that would be a shame," Link said. Allen moved into the next position, and Link’s hands moved with him. His partnering was subtle yet firm, occasionally tugging or pressing to adjust Allen’s stance. "I have a weakness for the classics. My area of study demands it of me."  
  
"Tell me about it," Allen said. He dropped into a plié, and Link retreated a few steps to observe his form.  
  
"Just try and imagine attending _Giselle_ or _La Sylphide_ on the night of its premiere," Link said, circling Allen with the brisk assurance of a tenured dance instructor. "Nowadays, we consider them overplayed and overdone, but once upon a time, they were shocking. Fresh. You know, even the waltz was once considered a bold, scandalous fad."  
  
Allen lifted his head.  
  
"And why is that, _sir?"_  
  
"In past social dances, such as the minuet, man and woman stood side by side and did not touch, save for the occasional touch of the hand," Link said. Absorbed in his lecture, he took Allen by the hand to illustrate. This was a poised, formal touch, sustained with the articulated calculation of a true dancer. "The waltz had a more relaxed stance. Most shockingly, it involved holding. Touch. It was through studying the romantic embrace of the waltz that ballet masters conceived the fully-partnered _pas de deux_."  
  
"A couple moving in and out of embrace," Allen noted. Moving with gentle adagio, he twisted back into Link’s arms. His back came to press against the warmth of Link’s chest, their hands still delicately interlocked. "Like so."  
  
Link let out a breath of surprise, and it skated hot and sweet over the nape of Allen’s neck.  
  
"Quite," he murmured. He released Allen, then, with only the barest trace of hesitation. Allen stepped away, but didn’t go far. With great lightness, he prowled around Link. Link’s arm remained outstretched, as if he intended to pull Allen back into his body once more. "An... arresting display of intimacy, to many."  
  
"Scandalous indeed," Allen demurred. He fanned one hand over a catlike smile. "No doubt irresistibly erotic, in a more repressed time."  
  
"Well,” Link said, face a little red. "You're certainly not wrong."  
  
“I rarely am," Allen said without missing a beat.   
  
"I suppose I should get used to that."

"You really should," Allen agreed, and as Link's face went redder, his smile grew wider. He slipped back into Link’s embrace. Without needing to be asked, Link’s hands came to rest on Allen’s waist, securing him. 

"It was an age of erotic fashions," Link continued, lecturing now with the vague detachment of a man distracted. "When attending a ball or ballet, women would intentionally wet down their muslin dresses to show off the curves of their bodies."

"Should we be dancing soaking wet, too?" Allen teased.

 Link let out a shaky little laugh.

"I'm afraid I might slip."

"I'd catch you."

"And risk being taken down with me?"

"There are worse things," Allen said.

He let himself go weightless, then— less muscle, more bone, body twisting with a sort of airborne fluidity he rarely allowed it. Flow and release. Allen wasn’t dancing _Swan Lake_ anymore, but Link didn’t seem to mind, guiding Allen’s steps with a reassuring stability as Allen spun back into Link's arms.  
  
“That’s better,” Link said against Allen’s ear, Allen lifting one leg coyly into a pirouette. His voice had gone very low. “Yes. That's beautiful.” Then, again, as Allen turned and turned and translated raw energy into refinement, "Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."  
  
“You think so?” Allen said, slowing just slightly to catch a glimpse of Link's face. Something in his expression had glassed over, lost in the moment.  
  
“I have eyes.”  
  
Allen turned and spiraled up, still in the grip of the motion, and then they were facing one another. They were breathing hard, flush with movement. Link didn’t move. Neither did Allen. They just breathed, Link’s hands on Allen’s waist, Allen’s hands feathering up towards Link’s shoulders in search of stability.  
  
“Would you like to go for coffee?” Link asked, right at the exact moment that Allen asked, “Can I get your number?”  
  
There was a pause, and then they were both laughing, Link ducking out of their embrace to cover his reddened face with his hands.

" _Oh my God,_ " Link said, mortified by his own boldness, and Allen gripped his own shoulders, giddy with happiness and buoyant with laughter.

"Well, I guess that settles that," he grinned, and when Link returned it with a smile of his own, he felt something in his stomach catch. It was warm, this something. Something sweet. Something he'd performed onstage a thousand times, yet never had the chance to experience for himself.

Something bright and new.

**Author's Note:**

> hurryupfic | tumblr  
> fuckhowardlink | twitter
> 
> still working this obsession out of my system.


End file.
